The Power of the Waking World
by the-speed-reader
Summary: She wakes up in a flash of panic and pain, the sheets hot and sticky with sweat.


_Hello people of aos fanfiction! I wrote this before last night's __episode aired and polished it up a bit, conforming it to the story line. It's a missing scene that takes place right after 1x20 and right before we see the team planning their strategy in 1x21. Cannot wait for 1x22, but the way. My friends and I have been throwing ideas into the air as to what is going to happen, but nothing really good yet - all we know is that it's gonna scare the living hell outta us._

_So please, sit back, scroll down, and enjoy the endless SkyeWard feelings._

* * *

"_Of all the things you choose in life, you don't get to choose what your nightmares are. You don't pick them; they pick you._" -John Irving

* * *

She can't remember last time she had a full night's sleep.

She wakes up in a flash of panic and pain, the sheets hot and sticky with sweat, two slightly raised bumps on her middle burning with an ache that would never truly go away; for a moment, the sheer amount of pain coursing through the smack dab center of her stomach causes all logical thoughts and whispers to fly out of her mind, the most carefully crafted lie stealing her consignees as easy as if she had handed herself over on a silver platter.

There's a silver screen flashing beneath her eyelids as she slams her eyes tightly shut, the echoes of her nightmare playing on a rhythm through the wave lengths of her thoughts. Her hands are fisted into the sheets, tanking them up in her damp palms; her temples are pounding, a side effect of shooting away in a sharp flash. She can feel her toes curling underneath the formerly cool fabric, moisture collecting under the backs of her knees. She can't breath — it's as if all the air was sucked out of the room, preventing her from even taking in the slightest bit of oxygen.

Her lightly tanged hair is spilling over her shoulders, the very finest of tips brushing against the middle of her back. As she forces her self to calm down, to regain her senses, her eyes immediately make focus on the blinking red numbers against the opposite wall: _2:37_. The pain in her temple and middle being to fade, quickly becoming only the faints shreds of a nightmare long lost.

One of her hands untangles itself from the bunched up fabric, taking a tentative path before settling itself lightly of her middle. Her free arm relaxes, going limp as she, quietly and carefully, leans back down on the mattress, her rather sore back protesting at the movement. The tips of her fingers brush two spots where only millimeters of raised, bumpy skin are felt; but she can feel them as well as if she had been born with it, knows it like the back of her hand, _fears _it even more.

Her wrists wring themselves out when she removes her palm from the bare skin of her middle, breathing becoming a welcome constant as she struggles to regain the area of mind formerly known as peace. Her thoughts begin whirling as she begins to slowly recognize her surroundings, eyes narrowed slightly as she takes in the dark of the ceiling.

_Motel. _She's along; she can tell that much, at least. Every sign of another being is blank from her mind as she glares up at the shadowed paint above her as if daring it to contradict her. When it doesn't (because quite honestly, if it did, that would scare the hell outta her) she forces her eyes to relax, removing them from the previous squinting motion. There's a dim light coming from outside the solitary window in the room, but no blurs of shapes beyond that; there's the faint noise of a siren that is at least three streets away and as her hearing fully adjusts to the waking state, she can detect the faintest of whispers coming through the thin walls of the room beside her.

She jerks her head to the side when the lightest sound of tapping is heard, her fingers immediately flinching to the gun she's been sleeping with under her pillow. But it's noting, only the twitch of a nearby tree tapping against the glass, caught in the torrents of the ever present enemy that is known as the wind. Her pulse had been beating widely every since she had jolted away and it's only now just going back to normal, the firmly burning temperature settling.

She rolls her neck back to face the ceiling, all other signs of life now forgotten. Her eyes can pick out the tiny details now that the light has blended into the dark, creating a slightly light shadow that appears from her own shade. There's three rather large cracks that she can count, with tiny drops of water falling from the one to her far left, along with numerous tiny lines in the paint. It doesn't bother her though. She's stayed in far worse places that a seedy motel for one, her old, run-down van included.

Her eyes flicker shut, making work in the process of willing the violent nightmare from her mind; only, there's a problem. She can't forget because _is wasn't just a dream_. It was the memory of a life long gone, a love lost forever into the midst.

Her lips curl when that word, _love_, pops into her mind, forcing itself into a permanent place in her thoughts A lump forms in her throat now, burning a trail of fire that whispers along her skin; cause and effect appears, as it always does, and suddenly an all too familiar pair of dark eyes places itself into her thoughts This makes the smallest of groans escape her lips, the corner of her eyes desperately trying to keep the tears at bay.

It doesn't work, so when a hot, steamy drop of moisture escapes, she immediately moves to wipe it off. This stalls others as she blinks over and over again, trying to prevent them from falling ever again. Because _he _shouldn't deserve her tears; he really didn't. That traitor needed to pay for what he had done to her. She wanted him to hurt like she had, both physically and emotionally. He had done so much damages to her that she — after knowledge of his true loyalties burned itself into her conscious — had been terrified that should would never recover. And she hadn't yet, not truly. But she couldn't tell a soul; if Coulson knew, he would never send her on a mission again.

_They're real, Skye, _his voice penetrates her thoughts, deep and so utterly terrified that she wouldn't believe him. _They always have been_.

This time, when the bile rises in her throat, she doesn't stop it. She's jerking the sheets off, feet pounding harshly against the multicolored carpet as she bolts for the bathroom. She barely makes it onto her knees before her mouth is parting and her earlier snack of nothing but a granola bar is making a sudden appearance in the toilet.

When she's done, she settles her weight on her calves and brings one hand up, wiping the horrid substance from her mouth. Her head hits the wall, though lightly, causes a swear to escape. The feeling of fatigue suddenly makes it's appearance (_of course, because why else?_) and her eyes flicker shut, welcoming the blackness, her entire being feeling like she's been drugged.

She's in a lull then, her body and mind caught between the power of the waking world and the unconscious one. She doesn't remember how long she's been there, but when she comes to slightly, there's a sliver of sunlight peeking through the aged, yellow curtains.

She's beyond exhausted; all she wants to do is sleep, yet she can't. Because every night since her kidnapping, she has not been able to dream without him slinking his way into her nightmares and her thoughts.

She nods off eventually though, her thoughts drawing into darkness, her fingers tapping a pattern against the cool tiles.

* * *

When she wakes, she sees his face.

His stubble feels rough under the soft pads of her fingers when she reaches forward with no hesitation and touches the deep scar that runs itself over his left cheek. He only stares back at her, his eyes soft. He doesn't do anything as her palm presses itself there, rubbing a thumb over the corner of his mouth.

For some reason, all warning signs in her mind have come to a halt. There's no questioning, no thoughts, no anything; all she wants to do is be near him, the very force of his presence quickening her pulse.

He leans forward then, his lips inches from hers. Their eyes lock, a blur of color, as he pauses millimeters from her face. "Skye," he whispers, their breaths mingling.

She closes the final gap between them, sealing his lips with hers. One of his hands threads itself through her hair while the other slips its way to her hip, while her palms move to link around the back of his neck. Kissing him is an experience like no other; he tastes faintly of roasted peanuts for some strange reason, and smells of the faintest hint of smoke.

Her eyelids flicker shut, just for a split second, to relish this moment. But then, she opens them — and he's gone.

Her eyes jerk open, her mouth parting, gasping for air. Suddenly there's hands rushing on her cheeks, smooth, so different than his calloused ones; her eyes are blinking, coming into focus as she draws air into her lungs, deeply, carefully. Hazel eyes appear in her vision, the first inkling of confusion spilling into her thoughts.

"Ward?" she murmurs, her voice soft, low.

"No, Skye," the British voice of Simmons' responds. "It's only me. You fell asleep on the floor — Coulson sent me to get you, we're going to go over the plan. Are you alright?"

She swallows, hard, her fists clenching. "I'm fine," she speaks, blowing out a brush of wind.

_No. No, I'm not._

* * *

_Poor Skye. I'm very interested to see how the showdown between Ward and Skye will be though, as seen in the promo. What will she destroy him with?_


End file.
